


in front of the old lectern

by chaoticlivi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Short One Shot, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25670629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticlivi/pseuds/chaoticlivi
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51





	in front of the old lectern

It's when Aziraphale catches sight of the eagle lectern that he pauses and finally makes eye contact again, anguish carved into every line on his face.

"Heaven will be looking for me soon, Crowley," he says, voice quiet and strained. "What if it doesn't work?"

"Come on. Give old Agnes a chance."

"It’s nothing against her. It’s me. What if I'm reading it wrong?"

"I don’t think you are."

"They turn people into salt. Bury them alive in the desert for eternity. Murder a hundred and eighty-five thousand in one swoop."

"I know, angel. I remember."

"And Hell. Hell will be coming." Aziraphale is clutching at his forearms, as though he's cold, but he's not shivering; he's utterly still except how he nods his head urgently away, imploring Crowley to look somewhere beyond the flat. "It's probably too late for you to leave," he says.

"I'm not leaving."

Aziraphale clenches his hands into the fabric of his own coat, his eyes watering. "Nothing is for certain, and I _can’t stand_ it." In that one phrase, Crowley can hear the sum total of Aziraphale’s existential dread. His arms are still wrapped around himself, making an awkward, sad little picture, warm colors alone in the cool light of the corridor.

Crowley lets his wings materialize. Slowly, he wraps one around Aziraphale, not touching him (not going too fast) - just hanging there, as if Heaven and Hell were some kind of rainstorm the angel could be kept dry from.

Aziraphale’s hands relax and his shoulders sag until he’s nearly crumpling. “May I?” he whispers.

“Of course.”

It’s the first time Crowley’s been properly held. This isn’t a language spoken in Heaven or Hell. Still, even at his most terrified, the warmth Aziraphale radiates under Crowley’s wings and in his arms makes _this_ the safest place in the universe, and it reinforces what Crowley has known since Adam vanquished Satan - that this is it. If there’s a right track, they’re on it.

“You know, I’m not thrilled about the prospect of you going to Hell, either. But everything Agnes wrote was right, and I believe in her. And us. I believe in us.”

On getting squeezed more tightly by Aziraphale, Crowley hopes they’ll be able to embrace like this again, but with less stress, sometime in the future. Doing it for joy instead of desperation will probably involve more openness about emotions and feelings and vulnerability, things demons and angels alike are specifically programmed not to talk about. But they're on their own side now.

“Alright, my dear. You know I do, too.”

For the moment, each can simply be the other’s lifeline in front of the old lectern.


End file.
